


Empty Measure

by stephanericher



Series: SASO 17 [8]
Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Alternate Universe - Music, Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-11
Updated: 2017-06-11
Packaged: 2018-11-12 20:28:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11169468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stephanericher/pseuds/stephanericher
Summary: The end starts with champagne.





	Empty Measure

**Author's Note:**

> for saso br1, original prompt [here](http://sportsanime.dreamwidth.org/21522.html?thread=10339090#cmt10339090)

The end starts with champagne. They have it all ready and on the rocks, waiting for the billboard charts even though they all already know. Taiga’s major-label debut is going to hit number one on the first week, nothing short of what it deserves. It’s got a great backbeat, crossover appeal, and a chorus just about anyone can sing along to. And the guitars—it’s technique Tatsuya had honed, taught to Taiga because if he’s going to be a vocalist he needs to know an instrument other than drums, and Taiga had lifted and perfected, chord progressions Tatsuya never would have attempted but that make perfect sense in context, difficult maneuvers and gorgeous modulations.  
  
Tatsuya can barely stand to listen to it.  
  
Someone refreshes the page; the charts are out and Taiga’s at number one. Tatsuya thinks of ducking into a back room, suddenly has the urge to smoke a cigarette even though he’d kicked the habit years ago. But then Taiga’s pulling him into the photo, handing him a glass of champagne as bottles pop everywhere in the room and the executives all congratulate each other.  
  
“We did it, Tatsuya,” Taiga’s saying in his ear, and where is this collective coming from? It’s all Taiga.  
  
“You’re wonderful; get used to it,” Tatsuya says, pushing the feelings down and away.  
  
It’s hard to let the anger take control when Taiga’s somehow smiling at him like he’s the only one in the room, when he can hear nothing other than the clatter of their glasses against each other, when all he can smell is alcohol and the cinnamon on Taiga’s breath. Taiga wouldn’t dare steal a kiss here, in front of everyone, but he takes too many once they’re alone, and Tatsuya thinks (he thinks too much) that since this won’t last much longer, he ought to enjoy it and indulge both of them. He gives; he takes; he almost forgets why until they’re drifting off to sleep and Taiga whispers, “number one.”  
  
Tatsuya can’t sleep after that.

* * *

Taiga’s next two singles notch repeated number ones; all three of them are still in the top ten and the record company’s scrambling to change the upcoming tour. They don’t even ask Tatsuya for the sake of courtesy; they just change everything. Instead of Tatsuya as the headliner and Taiga below, their names appear the same. Tickets start selling faster; Tatsuya can’t fault them for running this like the business it is. But the anger burns white-hot inside of him, like a laptop with a broken fan, a desert in the middle of nowhere, flat land and twenty hours of daylight. As soon as he’d heard Taiga sing, he’d known this was going to happen. He just didn’t think it would be that fast.  
  
Taiga’s been sleeping at Tatsuya’s most nights (Tatsuya ignores the looks Alex gives him whenever he twists his car keys on his finger and Taiga follows; he’s not going to talk about it unless she forces the issue) but more and more he’s staying all night in the studio, overtaken by a sudden surge of creativity. He calls up Tatsuya one night and asks him to join, and even if he’d wanted to Tatsuya wouldn’t be able to say no to Taiga like this (he remembers being young, up-and-coming, the label throwing all of their resources at him, session musicians and instruments and studio time and management, and wonders how long it’s been). He takes the shortcut across the valley and speeds through the places he knows cops never hide; it might be the fastest he’s ever gotten there.  
  
“I was wondering if you could give my new stuff a listen?” Taiga says, no false humility or anything other than utter sincerity in his voice (and how long he has left to realize how good he actually is, Tatsuya’s not sure).  
  
“Of course,” says Tatsuya.  
  
The new stuff’s—fuck, good is such an understatement, a loose word. It’s better than the stuff on his first album, with more of an edge, more refined; he’s doing more with his voice and with all of the instruments (those are definitely Taiga’s drums in the background; that’s definitely Taiga’s sweet guitar style, and even the keyboards have his signature).  
  
“Taiga, this is wonderful,” says Tatsuya.  
  
He reaches over to take Taiga’s hand, and Taiga smiles, bright and beautiful as if he’s got infinite reserves of light deep inside of him, a star that defies everything by being bright and constantly strong.  
  
“I was wondering—I started doing stuff for the bass parts, but if you could help? If you want to play?”  
  
As if that’s ever a question.

* * *

Taiga’s new singles keep coming; he’s racking up more top-tens as the tour goes on and Tatsuya’s latest flops. Tatsuya wonders if Taiga’s even heard it, and from the way he keeps bringing Tatsuya up in interviews— _helped me so much, such an inspiration, I love his music_ —he can’t have. They’re sleeping in four-star hotels, bumped up to keep Taiga happy (even though he probably wouldn’t care if they were sleeping in the backseat of a car) and with the extra cash he’s bringing to the studio. Tatsuya tells himself to enjoy it, but he can’t, really.  
  
He doesn’t fall asleep; Taiga snoring next to him isn’t as relaxing as it once was, as it could be. Taiga’s arm draped over his stomach is heavy, the weight of his own failures to live up to Taiga’s ideal of him, his own standards. And he still can’t think of new songs; the lyrics that used be not easy, but doable, a riff on something, playing into his audience’s emotions, are now impossible. Every melody is stale; it’s as if he’s done all there is to do. But then Taiga fools around on the guitar and comes up with something brand-new, something that comes from seemingly nowhere, and the rage burns in Tatsuya like a forest fire.  
  
He wonders how long Taiga’s going to keep him around before he realizes it’s all an illusion, that he’s looking up to a fraud ten levels below him in reality. Can he wait it out, suck Taiga dry like a vampire? Or is it better to end things right now, crush Taiga’s idealized image himself but keep some of it intact, leave him wondering what might have been, with some fond memory?

* * *

Tatsuya’s contract is up a month after the tour. Alex asks him if he’s been recording anything in the meantime; she knows the answer (but she’s a good agent all the time). There’s no way they’re getting another album out; there’s no way it would do very well even if he’d tried. Last time, he’d been the one with the champagne, pushing his way up—not with the same meteoric rise, but making an impact just the same; they’d given him a new deal months before the old one expired and it had felt too good to be true, that he was here, that he’d arrived.  
  
Bach then, Tatsuya hadn’t thought much about the opposite of arrival, but here he is. The execs thank him for his services and pocket their share of the concert fees, and that’s that. Taiga’s off on a tour of Europe; he kisses Tatsuya goodbye the morning he leaves, all of the stuff he’d left at Tatsuya’s packed neatly into a small suitcase.  
  
“I’ll call; I’ll bring you back some good stuff. International pickles.”  
  
He means it, and Tatsuya quells the sob threatening to leave his throat. He hugs Taiga tightly; he doesn’t say anything about the label dropping him or that he’ll probably have to sell this apartment because the taxes in this area are killer or any of his own shit. This is Taiga’s moment, and he wants to leave Taiga with something good. Taiga hugs him back, just as tightly.  
  
“Hey. It’ll be okay; I’ll be back before you know it.”  
  
“Have fun,” says Tatsuya (and it’s hard to smile).  
  
Taiga doesn’t call for a week, and it’s easier by that time, to lie to himself. To say Taiga doesn’t care already, to say he’s ready to move on. When Tatsuya’s phone finally rings, he lets it go. It rings again, and he puts it on silent. It’s a long time before Taiga finally stops calling.


End file.
